“You make a beautiful dead girl. You’re so pretty when you’re dead.”
“Brush her hair, Mick!”
“Gosh…you know? I mean truly. Death is your thing.”
“Brent, can you make her smile?”
Brent: Ma’am? She is smiling…
I can speak for myself. I’m living in my own way. Within my last happy moment of WE. No photos taken, just eye snaps to memory. The scent of grass in the wind. The cool flow of water around my feet. The warm bricks on my back and hands. The warm looks you give me. The soft touch of for lips. The scruff of your beard. The gold flames behind your light brown eyes. The crows calling. The embrace of your animal. May I have another hug?
In my tree,
Photo: Keota Picou